To the whore who took my poems

When you search for poetry written by Charles Bukowski, there is a good chance you will eventually read the poem “ To the whore who took my poems.” In this poem, Bukowski tells us about the nightmare of every poet.

When you search for poetry written by Charles Bukowski, there is a good chance you will eventually read the poem “ To the whore who took my poems.” In this poem, Bukowski tells us about the nightmare of every poet.

Raw

Let’s start with this Charles Bukowski. If you are a user of social media – you probably are -, then there is a good chance you have read work of him before. This underground poet is known for his raw descriptions of urban life. In his work, he took the stand to that what he thought was not so common. Yet it was and in a way, it still is.

Analysis

There is so much to this poem. Let’s start with another poem, not written by Bukowski, but by Gaius Valerius Catullus – known as Catullus. This Roman poet was no stranger to Bukowski.

#42 (The writing tablets: to the Hendecasyllables)

Come, hendecasyllables, as many as you all are
from all sides, however many you all are.
A foul whore thinks that I am a joke,
and denies that she may return to me our
tablets, if you are able to endure that.
Let us follow her and demand back.
Who is she, do you ask? That one, whom you see
with an ugly march, laughing as an annoying mimic,
and with the mouth of a Gallic dog.
Stand around her, and demand back,
“rotten whore, give back my tablets,
give the tablets back, you dirty whore!”
Do you not make an As? O filth, brothel,
or whatever more depraved thing you are able to be.
But nevertheless we must not think this enough.
Because if no other is able let us force a blush
from the wild fast of the dog.
Shout out again with a greater voice,
“rotten whore, give back my tablets,
give the tablets back, you dirty whore!”
But we benefit nothing, she is not moved.
Your reason and method must be changed,
if your are able to benefit more:
“Chaste and approved one, give us back the tablets.”

Back to Bukowski. What is the poem about? Is it about that dreadful moment, when you wake up the next morning and realize that your wallet is gone, but your notes are still there? Or is it perhaps the realization that she stole something very valuable for you: your poems. Well, not just your poems, but your creativity. Since this creativity is part of who that person is, you can consider as something that is stolen and resembles something so important like your mind or even your soul.

Yes, this poem is very explicit, based on the title. Let’s say you are so furious about something and the one who is the reason for your anger is a woman, there might be a chance you will use that exact word – whore. A whore is also the word that is used when someone takes money for certain physical acts. Let’s step away from this definition for a while. If this isn’t about those activities, maybe it was someone who used him to get what she wanted: fame for something she didn’t write.

This poem is the reason why you either love or dislike this poet. This poem is raw, it’s controversial and it is open to more than one interpretation.

Our interpretation

What do we think of this poem? Well, let’s start with the title. It’s not very polite to use the word whore for women. It reflects an emotion. An emotion we see very often and then we come back to social media.

It’s so easy to use words of others. We do this too! We love poetry and we feel the need to share as many poems as we can. However, there is a difference between citation and plagiarism. Plagiarism is like stealing and it causes intense emotions. These emotions are all about the fact that someone stole your work. Plagiarism is plagiarism when someone passes off work of others as their own.

Although this poem is touching the edges of what or what not to publish, this is a strong protest against those who steal. Plagiarism is stealing. Let’s be honest about that!

To the whore who took my poems

some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don’t keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn’t you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I’m not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won’t be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there’ll always be mony and whores and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.